In the Shadow of Midnight (34 page)

At Eduard’s insistence, they had moved a bench closer to the fire, but even with her cup of mead cradled in her hands and the heat from the roaring flames curling her toes, she felt chilled to the bone as she listened to his explanations of the events that had brought them to St. Malo. He told her everything—her uncle’s involvement; the plans to rescue Eleanor and remove her to a safe haven in Wales; the reasons for their secrecy and their need for stealth.

“The king knows he is losing his grip on Normandy. You have seen yourself, he has very little support left among the local barons of Touraine, Maine, Poitou, and Brittany. John must also have realized that to leave Eleanor in Normandy would give the rebelling forces a rallying point. If Hugh de Luisgnan overran Rouen and freed her, he would have a legitimate claimant to the throne to lead them in a civil war that could extend across the Channel into England.”

“Then the rumours about Arthur’s death …?” “Can only be true, my lady. He must be dead or the king would have used him to stop Hugh’s campaign long before now.”

“I see. And is this what you want? Civil war?”

“No. No, it is not what I want. Nor is it what your uncle wants. Our prime concern is Eleanor’s safety; of secondary,
political
consideration is her value, once she is beyond reach of the king’s control, to limit the power he wields from the throne.”

“Forgive me for asking so bluntly, but … why would the king have had Arthur killed, yet leave Eleanor alive? It would seem to me it accomplished nothing to remove the threat of one heir, knowing full well there was another waiting
to challenge him. And why take her to England? What does he plan to do with her there?”

“It would be my guess he plans to keep her locked away in a prison cell for the rest of her life,” Eduard said bitterly. “He has no other choice.”

“But one,” she pointed out gently.

Eduard snatched up the iron rod and thrust it into the bed of embers. He stabbed at them as if it was a sword he held, and as if the hot coals were the bleeding corpse of an enemy.

“It is your uncle’s feeling—and mine—that Arthur’s death was quite possibly an accident. The marshal was himself present on at least two occasions when the prince was offered his freedom in exchange for permanent exile and a public declaration of his uncle’s right to succession. John threatened execution on more than just those two occasions, going so far at times to have his hangman present. But the public hue and cry were such that he was forced to try to reason with the boy. The last thing he wanted to create was a martyr. What finally happened is only speculation, but knowing the Plantagenet temper and John’s bouts of insane jealousy, it would not surprise me to learn there is heavy truth to the story he ‘arranged’ an ‘accident.’”

“His own nephew?”

“The rightful king of England,” Eduard reminded her. “John spent too many years in Richard’s shadow coveting the crown, playing regent, and ruling England as if it was his own by foregone conclusion. Do you honestly think he would hand the crown over to another simply because of blood precedence? Do you not forget, he hated Richard. He offered daily prayers for a Saracen’s sword to cut him in half, and when the Austrian king took Richard prisoner and demanded John pay a ransom to free him, he delayed almost nine months and then paid only a small portion of the amount hoping Leopold would take the Lionheart’s life by way of example. If he were not so inept and if he did not have grave misgivings on how God would look upon regicide, John would undoubtedly have slain Richard himself long before the arrow at Chalus did the business for him.”

Eduard paused, set the iron rod aside, and shrugged as if he was arguing with himself. “Conversely, he may have outgrown those reservations and had Arthur executed despite any heavenly repercussions. He could have legitimized it in his mind—and in the eyes of the law, for that matter. Richard
did
declare John his successor and the barons of England did support the nomination. Arthur had sworn homage to him two years earlier, the first time he had tried and failed to establish his claim to the throne. As John’s vassal, then, attempting to lead a second uprising against the king was likened unto putting his own neck across the block. John had every right to put him to trial and execute him as a traitor. He did
not
have any such right where Eleanor was concerned, however, and to have executed her, then or now, would have caused every baron, knight, and commoner in the realm to rise against him. To kill a rebellious vassal is something the barons could justify; to kill beauty and innocence is something no man could condone.”

Ariel glanced sidelong at FitzRandwulf, noting the tension in his jaw, the hard narrowing of his eyes as he stared into the fire. She had never seen the Breton princess, but she had heard her uncle speak in awe of Eleanor’s incomparable beauty. Hair as bright as polished silver, eyes as blue as pieces of the sky, skin so fair and white the weight of a feather might bruise it.

Was it any wonder this scarred, enigmatic knight who had been birthed into pain and ugliness would have fallen so deeply in love with her? It was just as easy to understand how a woman who had spent most of her life shuffled between the courts of an aging dowager and a French effete would fall under the spell of a handsome, brooding beast like Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise. Nor was it any wonder he kept the ring hidden beneath his tunic instead of flaunting it for the world to see. Even a hint of an amorous liaison between the royal house of Brittany and a knight errant born on the wrong side of the blanket would mean the utter ruin of one and the agonizing death of the other.

Ariel stared down at her hands and saw they were trembling again.

“I do not understand why you simply did not explain all of this to me at the outset,” she said quietly, meaning more than just the intended rescue of Eleanor. “It could have saved so much time and trouble.”

“Your uncle thought it best this way. He was, I suppose, only trying to shield you, to spare you needless anxiety.”

Ariel raised her head and actually managed a smile. “To keep me from interfering or getting in the way, you mean.”

“To keep you safe,” Eduard insisted, turning to her. That was a mistake, for her eyes were soft and lustrous in the firelight, reflecting the glow like polished gemstones. Her hair floated around her face like a tarnished cloud, all red and gold and copper sparks. There were blotches on the whiteness of her throat where the stubble of his beard had chafed her, and a swollen tenderness about the mouth, the cause of which a man would have to be blind not to recognize. She looked half ravished and more desirable than it was safe to appear to a man who had already come perilously close to consigning his honour to the fires of hell.

“Keeping you safe,” he continued softly, “is even more important now, and will necessitate a change in our plans.”

Ariel looked startled. “A change? Why?”

“To use you and the guise of a wedding cortege to gain access to Gorfe Castle? No.” He gave his head an adamant shake. “No. I did not like the scheme when it was first put forth and I like it even less now.”

“Even if it is the only way to gain entry?”

“It is not the only way. It was just the most convenient way at the time this whole charade came into being. In fact, I am more than half convinced to dispatch you to Wales on the first ship leaving port.”

“No!” she cried, sitting straighter. “I mean … no. No, you cannot jeopardize my uncle’s position. By your own words, you said he might be charged with treason, and I … I would sooner marry Reginald de Braose than see any such thing come about. You say you have letters proving you are escorting me north to the Marches; it would seem then, and at least until we reach the Marches, my uncle’s plan is the safest and soundest.
No one in all of Britain would dare challenge the seal of the Marshal of England.”

“Despite what I may have said, I have strong doubts the king would charge your uncle with treason for attempting to make a better marriage for his niece. He would exact a heavy fine, no doubt—”

“Or he would take my uncle’s five daughters away from Pembroke and hold them hostage in castles of his own choosing until such time as he could find the lowest, most vile grooms in the kingdom! Perhaps you could live with that, sir, but I could not. And yes, before you say it: I should have thought of them before now, but I was too busy thinking of myself. I have already admitted and will admit again to anyone who might care to hear it, that it was a foolish, childish, dangerous, thoughtless thing I have done, and if the plans for my own future happiness go awry, it will be no one’s fault but my own. My uncle’s future, however, and the future happiness of my aunt and my cousins … sweet Jesu and all the martyrs! You cannot be so cruel as to expect me to bear that upon my shoulders too? You cannot!”

“What would you have me do?” he asked carefully, as wary of her temper as he was of a naked blade. “Take you with us when we storm the castle? Have you stand with bow and arrow in hand, guarding our backs while we scale the walls?”

“It would not be the first time you have trusted my hand or my eye,” she reminded him.

Eduard smiled faintly and felt such an overwhelming need to kiss her, that he did so. Lightly. Affectionately. And very deliberately on the smooth expanse of her brow.

“This past sennight was child’s play compared to what will happen if we are successful in stealing Eleanor away from the king’s prison … assuming we are even successful enough to get close to her. Here, in Normandy, John’s Brabançons are too busy guarding their backs against the French and the Bretons, but in England, they will have nothing more important to do than to hunt us down. There will not be an inn or castle open to us for refuge, and even the deepest wilds of the forests may hold as many enemies as friends—men who hold
only scorn for a knight travelling in any guise, be it pilgrim or Crusader.”

“Yet you would carry the Princess Eleanor through these same dangers?” Ariel demanded. “Would the risks not be as great for her as for me—greater, even, since she would make a far more valuable hostage? Do you think her to be any better able to endure such hardships, or have you even given a thought as to
how
she would endure them? She
is
a princess, after all. You will not be able to simply toss her into squire’s clothing and sit her on a sway-backed nag. For that matter, she has probably never had to dress herself or tend herself in any way. Do you plan to take the place of her tiring women yourself? Or do you plan to entrust her to Sparrow or Sedrick or Henry to bathe and dress her?”

Eduard’s hand was still resting in a crush of copper curls, but she seemed not to have noticed the hand or the kiss. Her gaze was locked on his, steady and unwavering, and he could feel the effects rousing his flesh again, making his fingers tingle with the memory of where they had been, what they had discovered. A man could get lost in those eyes, he mused. He could be swallowed whole and never know, until it was too late, that there was as much steel as silk in their depths.

As to what he had discovered … it was odd, just as she was admitting she was spoiled and thoughtless, he was uncovering a part of her that was painfully innocent and uncertain. A part that wanted to hold and be held, to share something of herself instead of hoarding it all away until she became a creature like him, guarded and mistrustful, afraid of letting anyone know his nightmares.

“We will find a woman to tend her,” he said slowly.

“You have one now.”

“No.”

“You would rather hire some village slut with black teeth and lice? To tend the future queen of England? You must love her very much indeed.”

He was not prepared for her sarcasm. Being too unnerved by the emotions she had already stirred in his blood, he had no defense other than his anger to use against her.

“I have pledged my life to saving hers.”

“You have pledged your honour to safeguarding mine. Moreover, you gave me your most solemn oath not to abandon me again. I find it exceedingly curious how you can put so much store in one oath, but play so loose with another.”

“I am hardly playing loose with you,” he said savagely, almost beneath his breath. “If I were, you would still be on the floor, with your skirts above your head and your body cleaved to mine.”

Ariel’s breath stopped in her throat but she managed to start it again before turning too many shades of red. Yet she did not wither or recoil from his crudeness. She kept her gaze steady and her chin held high. “Once again you remind me of the noble distinction between bending an oath and breaking it. Have you used the same distinctions in the past … with Eleanor?”

It was Eduard’s turn to redden and he did so magnificently, glowing from throat to hairline, and even to the lobes of his ears. His hand fell from her shoulder and gripped her wrist, so tightly she feared the bones would snap in two.

Strangely enough, Ariel felt only envy. It was foolish and reckless to feel anything at all, but it was there, still hot between her thighs, still pounding against her rib cage. She should have known something like this would happen. She had been too free with her airs, scorning one suitor after another on the skimpiest of excuses, finding fault with all who were less than perfect in her eyes.

Here was a man … scarred, flawed, of anything but noble bloodlines, far from her wildest interpretation of perfect … and she could not even entice him to
want
her, much less
take
her.

“You must love her very much indeed,” she repeated, softly this time, the statement muted by dispassion, prompted by despair.

The terrible burning anger in his eyes dissipated, and the bite of his fingers eased around her flesh. There would, she suspected, be another visible blemish on her flesh come morning, but she did not
care to point this out to him. She did not care about anything other than salvaging what was left of her dignity.

“It seems,” she whispered, “we were better suited as adversaries.”

Eduard released her wrist completely and found himself alone on the bench, staring up at the proud, beautiful face of Ariel de Clare.